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Authors: Trish Morey
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amber-eyed minx from Australia strip down to her underwear in his study was threatening to bring him undone.
If only she could get those damned jeans off.
She laughed when he picked her up, the sound half-hysterical, half-intoxicated, wild and free, and he was intoxicated as he spun her around and headed for the desk, sweeping it clear with one arm, sending papers and pencils and phones scattering in all directions before he planted her hard upon the desk and ripped off her jeans, tearing the bra from her breasts with a snap in the next testosterone-fuelled action.
That gave him pause. Naked on his desk, her legs parted by his, she was almost too much to take in with his eyes, too much for one hand to drink in as it swept over creamy skin from knee to thigh to belly to cup one perfect breast.
She stopped laughing then, her breath coming fast and furious, her eyes wide as he pulled his belt free, tugged his zip down and kicked off his pants, her eyes so suddenly cold as he freed his aching erection that she looked almost... angry .
‘I hate you,’ she said, confirming it, her lips tight around the words, baring her sharp white teeth, and that was fine. That was good, because for a moment she’d blindsided him with that impromptu striptease and he’d felt a glimmer of... something ...that had hovered and curled around uncomfortably in his gut. But hatred he could work with.
Hatred would make her submission all the more satisfying.
And then he would dump her and she could hate him even more.
‘Excellent,’ he said, slamming open a drawer and rummaging through the contents until he found what he was looking for, shaking a packet free one-handed from the box. He tore it open with his teeth and had it on in record time, spreading her thighs wider to find her centre.
Slick and hot. Oh God.
He calmed himself long enough to stay poised at her entrance, his thumb working at that sensitive nub, watching the hatred in her amber eyes muddy with need, sensing the panting desperation of her breathing. Oh yes, she hated him all right.
‘I’m so glad we understand each other,’ he said, and he drove into her in one long exquisite thrust.
She cried out, her back arching on the desk like a bow, her hair rioting around her head, her eyes stuttering closed.
Hate was definitely underrated , he thought, as he braced her hips and drew slowly back, feeling involuntary muscles protest around him, try to keep him, seeing her eyes flicker open, confused and bereft and wanting more.
He gave her more. The second lunge took him deeper. She cried out again and this time when she bowed her back, he scooped her up from the desk so that she was sitting astride him, her breasts pressed against his chest, her legs curled around him and as he lifted her hips and let her fall, it was his turn to groan.
She needed no help to find the rhythm. She damn near set about setting it. She might have looked stunned before, but now she squirmed her bottom in his hands and braced herself on his shoulders, levering herself higher, letting herself take him in, increasing the speed, driving it, while her mouth worked at his throat, sharp teeth finding his flesh, every nip and bite timed to perfection, agony melding with ecstasy.
She was like a wildcat in his arms, untamed and unleashed, and it was all he could do to hang onto her while she used her body against him—all he could do to hang on, full stop.
Until she pumped him one too many times and any vestige of control vanished as he exploded inside her, the fireworks of her own orgasm ricocheting, magnified, through his.
Gasping and sweat-slicked, he hung on, her limbs heavy now, her head low on his chest, carrying her through an adjoining door to his suite. Awkwardly he pulled back the covers and then eased her onto the bed, where she closed her eyes and sighed into the mattress.
No tears, he thought, no recriminations? Half expecting both. That was a bonus. Though there probably wasn’t a whole
If only she could get those damned jeans off.
She laughed when he picked her up, the sound half-hysterical, half-intoxicated, wild and free, and he was intoxicated as he spun her around and headed for the desk, sweeping it clear with one arm, sending papers and pencils and phones scattering in all directions before he planted her hard upon the desk and ripped off her jeans, tearing the bra from her breasts with a snap in the next testosterone-fuelled action.
That gave him pause. Naked on his desk, her legs parted by his, she was almost too much to take in with his eyes, too much for one hand to drink in as it swept over creamy skin from knee to thigh to belly to cup one perfect breast.
She stopped laughing then, her breath coming fast and furious, her eyes wide as he pulled his belt free, tugged his zip down and kicked off his pants, her eyes so suddenly cold as he freed his aching erection that she looked almost... angry .
‘I hate you,’ she said, confirming it, her lips tight around the words, baring her sharp white teeth, and that was fine. That was good, because for a moment she’d blindsided him with that impromptu striptease and he’d felt a glimmer of... something ...that had hovered and curled around uncomfortably in his gut. But hatred he could work with.
Hatred would make her submission all the more satisfying.
And then he would dump her and she could hate him even more.
‘Excellent,’ he said, slamming open a drawer and rummaging through the contents until he found what he was looking for, shaking a packet free one-handed from the box. He tore it open with his teeth and had it on in record time, spreading her thighs wider to find her centre.
Slick and hot. Oh God.
He calmed himself long enough to stay poised at her entrance, his thumb working at that sensitive nub, watching the hatred in her amber eyes muddy with need, sensing the panting desperation of her breathing. Oh yes, she hated him all right.
‘I’m so glad we understand each other,’ he said, and he drove into her in one long exquisite thrust.
She cried out, her back arching on the desk like a bow, her hair rioting around her head, her eyes stuttering closed.
Hate was definitely underrated , he thought, as he braced her hips and drew slowly back, feeling involuntary muscles protest around him, try to keep him, seeing her eyes flicker open, confused and bereft and wanting more.
He gave her more. The second lunge took him deeper. She cried out again and this time when she bowed her back, he scooped her up from the desk so that she was sitting astride him, her breasts pressed against his chest, her legs curled around him and as he lifted her hips and let her fall, it was his turn to groan.
She needed no help to find the rhythm. She damn near set about setting it. She might have looked stunned before, but now she squirmed her bottom in his hands and braced herself on his shoulders, levering herself higher, letting herself take him in, increasing the speed, driving it, while her mouth worked at his throat, sharp teeth finding his flesh, every nip and bite timed to perfection, agony melding with ecstasy.
She was like a wildcat in his arms, untamed and unleashed, and it was all he could do to hang onto her while she used her body against him—all he could do to hang on, full stop.
Until she pumped him one too many times and any vestige of control vanished as he exploded inside her, the fireworks of her own orgasm ricocheting, magnified, through his.
Gasping and sweat-slicked, he hung on, her limbs heavy now, her head low on his chest, carrying her through an adjoining door to his suite. Awkwardly he pulled back the covers and then eased her onto the bed, where she closed her eyes and sighed into the mattress.
No tears, he thought, no recriminations? Half expecting both. That was a bonus. Though there probably wasn’t a whole
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